Fight From Seed

There are things I have to do, like
push away the pressure of the earth,
use the cloying, airless dirt and use it
to grow. To strengthen my being.

I must gather in the necessary
and leave behind no-good sediment
I must learn to show my head
above the surface now and then.

Let my shape be straight, like
an arrow to the atmosphere;
durable, full of life and limber.
Let my fibres flex.

I will open my arms and eyes
and heart. Uncurl and let myself be
washed with light and bathed in sky.

The birds will talk. They'll chatter
and ponder my slow progress.
The wind will tease or nudge,
at times perhaps huff and puff.

Seasons will always wax and wane
Frost. Snow. Heat. Drought.
I must endure. Acclimatise. 
But all the time I will wonder:
Why? For what reason?

Well, for love of the earth I come from;
the ground that holds my body.
And for the air, cool and clearing.
For the bees who visit, fussing
and buzzing, always interested.

And for myself.

But always, my eye will turn up
to you, radiant Sun. Out of reach
but shining down your sustenance.
And what's wrong with that?

What's wrong with taking strength,
with aspiring? Your light doesn't fall
for me exclusively but if a little
warms my upturned face,
where's the harm? I will always
have the earth. And the bees.

But if you make me stand
some small bit taller, straighter,
and stretch my roots wider,
maybe I will feel like belonging
to this flowerbed.